


We Were Heroes

by huesofmay



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Hawke has a kid, Here Lies the Abyss, Implied Sexual Content, Leave Hawke or Alistair in the fade, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), More angst, Motherhood, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huesofmay/pseuds/huesofmay
Summary: DRAGON AGE II SPOILERS AHEAD. Nine months after she cut him down at the Chantry, Anders leaves Hawke with one last headache, one she has no idea how to handle: a baby. With her lover dead, her family gone, and her friends scattered to the winds, Hawke reaches out in an act of desperation to her cousin, The Hero of Ferelden, whom she hasn't seen in fifteen years. The women reconnect and find the familial support they both so desperately need as they try to navigate life after saving the world. But the world has a way of getting un-saved, and ex-heroes never stay that way for long.
Relationships: Alistair/Amell (Dragon Age), Anders/Female Hawke, Female Hawke/Original Character(s), Iron Bull/Female Lavellan
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Maker's Breath by KatieBethBug
> 
> This work was written in collaboration with one of my dearest friends, KatieBethBug. Check out her work to see her Warden's side of the story!

The screaming made it difficult for Hawke to hear the door creak open. One moment, she was alone in the nursery—bouncing the shrieking infant on her shoulder—and the next she turned to see a tall woman with white-blonde hair leaning against the door frame. Hawke didn’t need to see the large, ornate staff or the griffon-crested breastplate to recognize her cousin: the Hero of Ferelden.

“Eda?” she gasped.

“Hey, Freddie,” the woman said with a growing smile. Her arrival had evidently intrigued the baby, who had finally stopped crying and was now staring at the stranger in her nursery.

“Andraste’s flaming _tits,_ is that really you?” Hawke breathed, incredulous.

“Ha! Fifteen years, and I see you still haven’t cleaned up that mouth of yours,” Eda laughed.

“I’ve had a lot of time to practice.” Their eyes met and a stiff silence fell as the reality of their time apart set in. Hawke looked away first.

“I didn’t think you would really come,” she said quietly. “It’s good to see you again.”

Eda let her staff fall against the door and rushed forward to wrap her cousin in an embrace. Hawke stood very still at first, unsure how to react to such an overwhelming gesture of comfort. It had been months since she had allowed anyone to touch her—let alone hug her—and her body had all but forgotten the procedure. After a moment, however, she melted and returned the embrace, burying her face into the thick blue padding of Eda’s armor. They stood like that for what felt like a long time, saying nothing yet still absorbing the familial support for which they were both so starved. Eventually, the baby wedged between the two of them decided that the proximity was no longer comfortable and endeavored to make this opinion known to everyone in the estate. The drew apart as Hawke fussed over her daughter.

“Now, don’t start this up again, Ella, you were being so good…” she moaned as she walked the baby to the changing table.

“Ella’s a pretty name,” Eda said as Hawke checked the child’s nappy.

“Bethany’s idea. A certain _someone_ tried to convince me to name her Varric, but reason won out in the end.” Hawke glanced back down and frowned. “You’re not wet and you just ate; what is it that you want, darling?”

Ella’s reply was incomprehensible, though certainly audible. Hawke refastened the nappy and groaned in frustration.

“I’m so sorry, Eda, I’m a shit hostess—”

“She might need burping.”

“--she might need what now?”

Eda strode over to the changing table, tossed one of the neatly folded towels over her shoulder, and gestured to Ella. “May I?” she asked. Hawke tossed her hands into the air.

“Be my guest.”

Eda lifted the kicking baby—careful to support the head—to her shoulder and began to bounce her.

“Babies don’t really get the hang of digestion until they’re a few months old. I’m just helping her do what her tummy can’t yet,” Eda explained as she patted Ella’s back. Hawke squinted.

“You’re telling me she’s crying because she’s got wind?” She let out a barking laugh. “And I thought I had problems. You can’t even fart for yourself, you poor dear.”

Eda chuckled as she continued bouncing Ella. Hawke observed how deft and gentle Eda’s hands were on her daughter’s back and remarked to herself that her cousin seemed a much more capable mother than she herself felt. She wondered if Eda planned to have any children with her husband…was his name Aleric? Alexius? Alfred, perhaps…? All at once, Ella’s tantrum ended as she coughed a yellowish-white glob onto Eda’s towel-clad shoulder and yawned the yawn of victory. Hawke smiled as Ella curled her tiny fist into the end of Eda’s braid and fell instantly asleep.

“Amazing. I think she really likes you.”

“I think I really like her,” Eda said, never lifting her amber eyes from the tiny person snuggled in her arms. Watching the two, Hawke felt something within her chest uncoil at last. It had been months since she had been around family, and not even fifteen years apart could stifle the relief she felt at seeing another Amell in her home.

“Well, you can see her whenever you want, you know. Maker knows she needs _someone_ who knows about changing and burping and such,” Hawke said softly.

“Don’t you have at least forty people working in this house at all times who could help with that?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started on the staff. They’re always… _there_. I can’t even poke at my own fireplace without one of them rushing in and scolding me about getting my hands dirty.” Hawke shook her head. “I fought an arishok. I’ve slain _high dragons_ and they’re worried about my dirty hands!”

“I know! I _hated_ having everything done for me at Amaranthine. I got so frustrated one night that I sent all the servants home on a mandatory vacation.” Eda chuckled softly, careful not to wake Ella. “Maker, three days later and I had never seen such a mess.”

“Hey, but it was your mess and you were proud of it,” Hawke said, driving her fist into her palm.

“Ha! Maybe ‘proud’ is a bit of an exaggeration…”

“Nonsense. Making messes is an Amell family tradition!”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Eda laughed. She looked up from the baby and Hawke felt their eyes lock again. Their smiles melted like candlewax.

“No,” Hawke murmured. “I guess not.”

Silence fell over them once more. Thoughts chased around and around within Hawke’s head: so many questions about the last fifteen years, about the Blight…and so many stories to tell. But before she could draw breath to speak, the door creaked once more behind her.

“Maker’s breath,” a man’s voice murmured in a thick Ferelden accent. “That’s a sight I could get used to.” Hawke whipped around to face the intruder, instinctively reaching for a sword that was not there, but saw that he hadn’t been addressing her. He stared at Eda—still holding baby Ella—with eyes so full of love it made Hawke’s chest ache. He had amber eyes, like _his_ eyes…

Hawke saw the Hero of Ferelden turn to the newcomer and noted the warm, sunny smile that lit her face. Hawke swallowed hard. She assumed this must be Eda’s husband, Alex. No, Alvin. Eda confirmed Hawke’s suspicions by striding across the room to plant a kiss on the man’s jaw.

“You certainly caught up fast,” she said, her face glowing as he returned the kiss on the top of her head.

“I just followed the sound of screams and hoped for the best,” he said with a grin, nodding to the baby. “Works every time.” Eda glanced down at Ella, as if she had forgotten she was there, and then looked back at Hawke.

“Do you want…?” she offered the sleeping infant back to her mother, who waved a hand.

“You hold on to her. She seems to like you and we’ll just wake her up if we move her,” Hawke said offhandedly.

Eda’s smiled widened and she snuggled Ella closer to her chest. Hawke was suddenly struck by how…perfect the three of them looked together. With her blue eyes closed and her tuft of blonde hair tucked under a woolen cap, she could have easily been their daughter. Hawke swallowed something bitter at the back of her throat.

“You must be the fabled Alvin,” she said, smoothing her disheveled hair and sticking out her hand. He let out a hearty laugh.

“That’s me, Alvin the Almighty, husband to the Hero!” he boomed. “Ooh! I like that, darling: ‘Alvin the Almighty!’ You’ve got to help me remember that.”

“Stop shouting, you’ll wake the little one!” Eda’s scolding was belied by the smile she could not banish.

All the same, he put his finger dutifully to his lips.

“Freddie, this is my husband, _Alistair—”_

“Aliwhat?”

“—Alistair, love, this is my cousin, Freddie.”

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” he said, clasping her outstretched hand with enthusiasm. “We meet at last. I see the family resemblance, actually. The nose, the cheekbones, the insane _‘I’ve got to save the world!’_ look in the eyes.”

“Look, if you want to call me that, you’re going to have to buy me a drink first,” she protested with a laugh. “After barging into my house in the middle of the night, it’s the least you can do.”

“Sorry about that,” Eda winced. “We meant to send word tonight and visit tomorrow morning, but…”

“But _somebody_ took a flying leap off the ship and barreled into the city before her poor husband had a chance to retrieve their luggage.”

“It wasn’t a _flying_ leap,” Eda argued.

“Eda, I swear you forget you’re a mage sometimes,” he said, looking with exasperation to Hawke. “She was easily ten feet off the ground.”

“Well, what can I say? I was excited to see my favorite cousin,” Eda admitted with a shy laugh.

“That’s an understatement. She abandoned me is what she did. Asked where the Viscount’s estate was and marched straight through the city gates without so much as a ‘Don’t wait up, dear!’ I had to find the bloody place on my own in the dark, which is a real feat when _every street in this city looks the same._ It’s a wonder I’m not lost in an alley somewhere.”

“Don’t worry, the ruffians would have found you soon enough and sold you off to the highest bidder,” Hawke comforted. He chortled.

“Ah, I knew those ruffians had to be good for something!”

“You come into my city and insult my ruffians?” gasped Hawke. “Unacceptable.” 

“After the dark spawn, I thought he’d be glad to see a ruffian or two,” Eda said. “Besides, you made it to the estate in one piece.”

“Yes, I did, no thanks to the _Hero of Ferelden_ ,” he replied with a sardonic grin. Eda made to swat at him, but he caught her wrist lightly in his hand and leaned in for a kiss. Hawke, slightly uncomfortable, busied herself with a stain she suddenly noticed on her dress. Ella, having no such manners, chose that moment to conclude her nap. Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed two fistfuls of Alistair’s hair.

“Ow ow _ow!_ ” he yelped, pulling away from his wife. “I see I have offended the lady of the house!”

“Ooh, you’re in trouble now,” Hawke warned. However, rather than crying—as she usually did when aroused from sleep—Ella was babbling softly to herself in a language only she knew.

“Then again, maybe you’re not,” she amended. “Aniston—”

“ _Alistair,”_ Eda corrected.

“—that’s what I said—this is my boss, Ella.”

“A pleasure,” he said, struggling against Ella’s grasp.

“Ella, this is…Alistair?” Hawke squinted at Eda. “Are we _sure_ it’s Alistair?”

“That’s what it says in the Warden files,” Eda laughed. “I should know, I spent six damn months going through those files in Amaranthine while he was off frolicking in the Deep Roads.”

“Hey,” Alistair protested, gently unfurling the baby’s surprisingly strong fingers. “You and I both know you can’t frolic in the Deep Roads. The terrain is much better suited for traipsing. _There!_ ” He pulled free at last and rubbed his sore scalp. “Maker, what are you _feeding_ her?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Hawke asked, feigning shock. “Dragon’s blood is the only thing for Kirkwall babies these days.”

“Right, that’s what Thedas needs. Another Amell woman with superhuman powers running amok,” he joked, tapping Ella’s nose. She wrapped her hands around his finger and pulled it to her mouth.

“I’d be careful, darling,” Ella warned. “Freddie told me she’s got a full set of shark teeth.”

Alistair made a yelping noise and tugged his finger away. The women laughed as he sneered at them from a safe distance, but Ella was not amused in the slightest. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she let out a deafening wail. Hawke rushed forward and scooped up her squalling daughter from Eda.

“Ah…sorry, Freddie…” Alistair said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

“Don’t be. It’s long past her bedtime; she’s just cranky,” said Hawke. She walked to a nearby cupboard, bouncing Ella to soother her, and pulled a rubber nipple out of a drawer. Then, she dropped into the rocking chair in the corner and placed the binkie in Ella’s mouth, rocking gently. Ella was temporarily placated, but she resumed her fit full force about forty seconds later. Hawke sighed and looked up at her guests.

“Looks like we’ve got a full-blown tantrum on our hands. If you’d like to go to bed, Selwyn could show you to the quest quarters. He’s just down the hall, and I know you both must be exhausted…”

“Nonsense,” Eda said over the screaming. “We’ll wait in the parlor for you to get her down and then we can chat.”

“Ah, about the parlor…” Alistair said. “I feel obligated to warn you about the hairy dwarf passed out on your rug. It looked like he was cuddling with some kind of…giant crossbow thingy? Is he a friend of yours?”

Hawke snorted, shifting Ella to her shoulder and rubbing her back. “That’s just Varric! He’s been holed up here since Ella arrived six days ago, the dear man…I don’t know how I’d have managed without him. He must have finally conked out from sheer exhaustion.”

“Glad to hear he’s not an intruder. Sounds like Ella’s lucky to have such a dedicated father,” Alistair practically shouted over the cries. Hawke raised her eyebrows and Eda clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Why don’t you go find that Selwyn fellow, love?” she said, steering him toward the door.

“But I thought you said…”

“I’d like to have a word with Freddie first. Woman talk, you’d hate it. No, shoo!”

“But—”

“I said shoo!” Eda insisted, pushing him into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Eda leaned against the door and scrubbed her face with the palms of her hands. “I’m so sorry, I swear I told him not to…”

“It’s fine, Eda,” Freddie said with a fixed smile. “Why don’t you have Selwyn show you to the wine cellar and grab a nice shiraz? It sounds like you and I will need it.”


	2. This Thing Will Come: Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to three months after the incident at the Chantry: Hawke divulges her fears to Varric after finding a painful memento.

“ _Shit!”_ Hawke screeched, hurling her greatsword into the desk with all her strength. The mahogany put up a decent fight at first, but upon her second swing it collapsed with a deafening crash into giant splinters. Papers went flying: city documents, letters, invitations, demands. A bottle of ink danced a graceful arc in the air, its jet-black contents trailing behind it like a comet’s tail before it smashed into the wreckage. The knick-knacks that had adorned the desk clattered onto the stone floor; a miniature dragon egg rendered in bronze rolled slowly away from the mess as if in embarrassment. Hawke panted as she considered the chaos. She had to admit a small sense of satisfaction to herself; it felt good to know she still had her strength after months of sitting at a fucking desk. Even so, she felt a twinge of shame at the extra work this would put upon the staff. And her letters! She let the heavy sword clatter to the floor as she leapt forward to salvage what she could from the spreading puddle of ink.

“Nice work,” she muttered to herself as she sifted through the sharp fragments of wood. She shoved aside all the leaflets marked with the seal of Kirkwall, letting the black pool feast itself upon the official city business. Business be damned. She hated ruling Kirkwall, and today she hated Kirkwall too. What had the Maker-forsaken city ever given her? Family? Friends? Her family was gone because of Kirkwall, and now it was driving her friends away one by one. They were wise; they smelled the storm and jumped ship while they could. But not Hawke. Hawke _was_ the storm. Her friends—hell, all of Kirkwall—would have been better off if she had stayed with Father to fend off the dark spawn.

“Thank the Maker!” Hawke cried as she pulled a sloppily tied parcel of parchment from the rubble. She examined it for ink stains, and, having assured herself of its well-being, hugged the stack of letters to her chest. As she turned to pick up her sword, she heard the delicate tinkle of porcelain on stone. She glanced down. A small decorative plate, miraculously unbroken, was rolling on edge in a lazy circle around her feet so that its image blurred into a haze of watercolor. Hawke frowned and stopped the plate with the tip of her boot. Tucking the parcel under her arm, she bent to retrieve what looked to be a portrait of some kind, though it was too dark in the room to see whose face it displayed. Squinting at the plate, she carried it to the window and pulled a corner of the heavy drapes back just enough to let a narrow sunbeam pierce the darkness. Hawke felt the heat of rage and grief expand in her chest. Illuminated before her was a familiar blond man with a lopsided grin that lit up his soft amber eyes, rendered in simple watercolor. Around the border of the plate, was written in neat script: “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Clutching the plate in both hands, Hawke sank to her knees. The stack of letters slipped from under her arm and dropped to the floor with a soft parchment hiss. Staring at his face, a face she had not looked upon in almost a month, Hawke felt hot tears spring to her eyes. She clenched her jaw and blinked, willing them away, but they rolled down her cheeks despite her efforts. She remembered the day Anders had given her the plate with painful clarity.

They had been sitting together in the docks, their legs dangling over the dark water from the pier. It was a place they met often when they felt pangs of homesickness for Ferelden; they would stare out over the ocean and share stories of home. This had been a day just like any other, filled with odd-jobs and mischief of a semi-legal variety, and Hawke had forgotten all about their anniversary until Anders tied his scarf over her eyes and pressed a small box into her hands. When she opened it to reveal the miniature portrait, her initial reaction had been uproarious laughter.

“Did you paint this?” she had asked. “This portrait of yourself? Is that what you’ve been hiding under your pillow and whispering sweet nothings to at night?”

“More like muttering curses when you put your damn ice feet on me. And as a matter of fact, I did,” he had said with a hint of pride. “I’ve been dabbling with watercolors ever since I left the Wardens.”

“And what am I to do with it? Put it under _my_ pillow and whisper sweet nothings to it?”

That made him laugh.

“Not if it means you stop whispering them to me, no. I just thought it was something you could have whenever we’re apart. So that, no matter how far I am from you, you can always know that I love you.”

“Anders, that’s beautiful…But that’s not what it says.”

“What?”

“The plate! It doesn’t say, ‘I love you,’ it says, ‘Happy Anniversary, my love!’” Hawke snickered. Anders raised his eyebrows mischievously.

“Oh, damn, you’re right! Better toss that one and start fresh,” he said, plucking the plate out of her hands and winding up as if to toss it into the ocean.

“ _No!”_ Hawke instinctively tackled him to the pier and snatched the plate back, giddy with laughter. Anders let out a groan as he pulled himself up, 

“Playing dirty then, are we?” he asked, swirling his hands in the air with a devilish grin.

“Hey, no magic, that’s not—” Hawke’s protests were cut short as a glowing green orb hit her square in the chest and pinned her to the pier. She tried to use the momentum to roll backward onto her feet, like Aveline had taught her, but found that she couldn’t move a muscle. “ _That’s cheating!”_ she screeched.

“Too bad!” he cried as he leapt on top of her, tickling her mercilessly. “Now face the very scary mage!”

“ _Noooooo!”_ Hawke yelped as he dug his fingers into her sides and under her chin, helpless until the glyph faded. “When this thing wears off, you are a dead man!”

“Oooh, I’m frightened!” he said, tugging off her boots and waving them in front of her face. “But you can’t kill me if you can’t catch me.”

“Wanna bet?” Hawke snarled, sensation slowly returning to her limbs.

“Race you home, darling!” He planted a sloppy kiss onto her lips. “Winner bangs the loser!” he called as he raced off in the direction of the estate.

“Hey!” she cried, peeling herself off of the pier. But he had already sped out of earshot, back to the home they shared. “Happy Anniversary,” she murmured to herself, tucking the plate into her belt pouch with a smile. She sped after him, cursing at the rocks under her stocking feet.

That had been nearly six months ago. Three months before the Chantry. Three months before…She shook the memory away. Hawke turned the plate over in her hands, letting its chill seep into her fingers.

“We’re about as far apart as two people can be now,” Hawke whispered to the watercolor rendition of the dead man. “And I don’t know that you ever loved me.” The words felt bitter on her tongue, mingling with the salt of the tears still dropping from her eyes.

“But I loved you.” And she had. She did. Despite the lies he had fed her, despite the betrayal, despite _everything_ _,_ she still loved him. She knew that a part of her would always love him, until the day she finally faced judgement for everything she had done. But she was angry. Hawke had never felt anger like what was boiling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to break something, to make something else look as ugly and broken as she felt, like the desk. She raised the porcelain plate above her head, ready to grind it into dust on the stone floor below. But she froze at the peak of her swing, suddenly uncertain.

“You sure you wanna smash that?” drawled a familiar voice from the doorframe. Hawke didn’t even bother turning around.

“Hi, Varric.”

“Hey, Hawke.” Hawke heard the leathery whisper of Varric’s boots as he crossed the room to swing into her handsome desk chair, casually propping his feet on a large fragment of the ruined ruined desk.

“Now, I’m not usually the kind of dwarf to stop someone on a destructive rampage. Everyone’s got their own catharsis,” he said, inspecting his nails. “But _that’s_ not the type of thing you can replace at the Hightown market.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Hawke said, still frozen with the plate above her head.

“Maybe. Maybe having his face gone for good will help you recover. Maybe not. All I’m saying is to think it over.”

“It hurts to look at him, Varric.”

“I know. It hurts me too.”

“I just want him gone! I want to forget he ever existed and just _live_ again!” Hawke cried, lifting the plate higher.

“He’s touched too much of you, Hawke, too much of all of us. He’ll never really be gone.”

“ _I know!”_ she sobbed, bringing the plate back to her chest to hug. “Maker, I know.”

Varric sighed and slid out of the desk chair, crossing the chamber to her. She was still on her knees, and the height difference between them was large enough for him to put his arm around her shoulders without kneeling down.

“It still hasn’t come, has it?” he asked softly, rubbing her back. Hawke sniffed and shook her head. “Well, are you sure you’re not just sick?”

“I’m three months late, Varric. What the hell else could I be sick with?”

“I don’t know, there are always new plagues brewing down in Darktown.”

“New plagues that only infect stupid women named Hawke who have terrible taste in men?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to hear,” Varric laughed mirthlessly. “You want me to write a serial about it? I’ll write a serial about it.”

“Thanks,” sniffed Hawke with a small smile. “But I don’t think a historically inaccurate action-romance serial is gonna stop this thing from coming in six months.”

“This ‘thing?’” Varric frowned. “Unless you were having a secret affair with Justice, I think we can be reasonably sure that it’s going to be a baby.”

“That’s the bloody _problem¸_ Varric! It _is_ a baby!”

“I notice you didn’t acknowledge the Justice comment,” Varric joked.

Hawke rolled her eyes and swiped at the wet spots on her cheeks.

“They were co-inhabiting the same body. Being with Anders was being with Justice.”

Varric raised his eyebrows and stood back on his heels.

“Add that to the list of things I wish I hadn’t asked.”

“Sure thing, O Ser Varric. Right after I find the cure to pregnancy and bring my dead lover back to life” she snapped. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

“No need to get hostile, I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

“I know,” Hawke said, softening. “It’s just…I’m just so…”

“Furious?”

“No…Well, yes, but it’s more than that.” Hawke looked up from the plate at last and met Varric’s eyes. “I’m so fucking scared, Varric.”

Whatever answer Varric had anticipated, this obviously was not it. He blinked once, looking blankly at his friend; then, as realization dawned over his stubbly face, he drew Hawke to his chest in a tight hug. She allowed him to hold her as her body shook with ugly sobs, curling her fist in the soft leather of his coat. He held her until she was finally able to draw an even breath again, what felt like an eternity later, and even when he let go, he kept one arm draped around her. Hawke rubbed at her splotchy red face with the heel of her palm and sighed.

“I have no idea how to be a mother,” she said softly. “I never _wanted_ to be a mother. The last babies I held were Bethany and Carver, and that was decades ago.”

“Well, you’ll figure it out as you go along,” Varric comforted. “You always have before.”

“Ha! Look how well that’s gone for me,” Hawke snorted, waving to the rubble of the desk.

“The desk is not important right now. What’s important is that you’re going to make it through this, and that you’re going to do it with the gang by your side.” Varric paused. “Well, most of the gang.”

“I know. You’ve been such a good friend to me; better than I deserve.” Hawke took a deep, steadying breath. “I just wish I could talk to Mother about it. She would know what to do.”

Varric chuckled.

“She is the expert in having children with runaway mages,” he agreed. They spent a moment lost in memory of Leandra: her warm smile, her constant worrying, her endless generosity. After a while, Varric punctuated the silence.

“She’d want you to find a way to love this kid and learn how to be happy again,” Varric said decisively.

“It’s not that I don’t love it, I’m just…not cut out for this kind of thing,” Hawke faltered. “Give me something I can whack with a sword, and I’m good to go. But this…” she gestured at her stomach, which was just beginning to hint at the life within. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Varric assured her, picking her up off the hard stone. “And I’m going to stay here until I see you really _smile_ again. Honestly, I’m afraid your face is gonna get stuck that way.”

“I guess that means you’ll have to stay forever,” said Hawke with a ghost of a smile. Varric’s eyes softened.

“Yeah, I guess I will,” he said, steering her to an armchair by the fire. As he did, he deftly swept the plate off the floor and tucked it into the sleeve of his coat for safe-keeping.


	3. Like Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present, Hawke and Eda share heartache, revelations, and a LOT of wine.

Hawke gently closed the door, lifting lit slightly off its hinges to avoid its usual creak. After a formidable tantrum, Ella had finally exhausted herself enough to drift off to sleep, hopefully for more than two hours…though Hawke wouldn’t hold her breath. The child had yet to sleep through the night. Hawke rubbed the grit out of her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, considering whether or not she wanted to walk into the parlor. On the one hand, she was dying for the company of another woman, after spending an entire week with only Varric and her new baby. And she longed to hear the story of how her cousin had single-handedly saved Ferelden from a Blight. But walking into the parlor meant discussing Anders, something Hawke had not done since the day she had told Varric she was pregnant. Hawke wasn’t sure she had the strength tonight…but she recalled from Eda’s letter that she wasn’t having such a good go of things herself. She and her husband were both Grey Wardens; having children wasn’t easy for them, wasn’t _possible_ for many of them. It was possible that Eda needed Hawke as much as Hawke needed Eda. Hawke held a puff of air within her cheeks for a moment and then released it.

She started down the corridor.

Rather than a conventional door, the parlor of the Hawke estate had a large archway that opened from the hall directly into the room. Through this opening, Hawke could see the curve of Eda’s head and shoulders as she sat on the sofa, illuminated by the soft fire glowing in the grate. From here, Eda seemed only a silhouette of a woman. And wasn’t that what she was to Hawke? The dark of fifteen years—lit only by occasional letters—had left Hawke with only a dim impression of who this woman was. After all, they had been children the last time they had really spoken. Who could say how time had changed the little girl Hawke had once known?

Hawke stepped through the archway after only a brief hesitation and strode over to the end table where Eda had placed the wine. Eda turned and regarded her with a weary smile as Hawke methodically pried the cork from the thick glass and lifted it to her nose. As Carver used to say, it smelled like wine.

“Where’s Alistair? I didn’t run him off, did I?” Hawke asked. She flicked the glass with her fingernail to create a dull chime.

Eda shook her head. “I sent him to bed. He wanted to stay and chat with you, but I told him you and I needed some time to catch up first.” She took a measured sip of wine. “And I was afraid he’d put his foot further into his mouth.”

Hawke chuckled, but could not think of any reply. Instead, she busied herself with splashing the hearty red into her glass, filling it almost all the way to the brim. A habit she had picked up from Fenris, no doubt. As her eyes adjusted to the lower light, Hawke noticed Varric slumped awkwardly against an armchair, with a stack of pillows carefully arranged under his head and a blanket tucked up to his chin. He snored softly, his mouth hanging open. Eda, who had been observing Hawke quietly, indicated the sleeping dwarf with her glass.

“We tried to pull him onto the chair, so he’d be more comfortable, but…” Eda held up her hands in a vague gesture. “He’s a bit…denser than we had thought, and we didn’t want to wake him up by knocking him around.”

“That’s all right.” Hawke said, taking a long draught from her glass. “He’s a hard sleeper, it’d take a high dragon to wake him up now.” Eda chuckled softly.

“High dragons, qunari warlords, corrupt templars…” Eda began. “I’ve heard so many wild rumors about the mischief you’ve been into while we were apart. I’m curious to know if any of them are true.”

“You’re one to talk, Ser ‘I slayed the archdemon and lived to tell the tale!’” Hawke retorted, settling on the opposite end of the sofa with her legs folded beneath her. Eda scoffed and regarded her wine.

“People love to blow that story out of proportion. I was unconscious most of that fight. Alistair did most of the work, I just got the final swing on the bugger,” Eda said humbly. Hawke snorted.

“Even you can’t downplay that, cousin-of-mine. You saved Ferelden. You stopped a _Blight._ Own it,” Hawke insisted, downing another large gulp of wine. “I want to know the story. The _real_ story, not the watered-down version you tell yourself or the hyped-up fairytale people have invented. The truth lies somewhere along the middle. _That’s_ the story I want to hear.”

“Fair enough,” Eda said. “But only if you tell me the _real_ story of how you saved Kirkwall.”

“Ha!” Hawke barked. Varric twitched slightly at the disturbance. “The story of how I fucked Kirkwall up the ass and then made it marginally less shitty than it had been before?”

Eda raised an eyebrow as Hawke knocked back the rest of her wine and made to pour another glass.

“Maker, I’ve missed alcohol,” Hawke muttered to herself. To Eda, she said: “Fair enough. Truth for a truth. But we’re going to need a few more bottles of this.”

The two women swapped tales for hours upon end as the candles burned lower and the wine flowed freer. Eda told Freddie of how she had been recruited into the Wardens after the trouble with her friend Jowan, the tragedy at Ostagar, the misadventures in Ferelden, the budding romance with Alistair. By the time Eda got to the final battle with the Archdemon, she had had just enough wine to drop her humility and tell the story right, though Hawke suspected she was still downplaying her own part in the fight. Hawke only interrupted her once, with a question about the final battle.

“All right, here’s where I’m hung up. I was told that a Grey Warden _can’t_ kill an Archdemon without dying in the process. Something about the taint absorbing its essence?” Hawke frowned. “So how did you do the one thing that Grey Warden’s can’t do?”

Eda pinched her lips together and aggressively refilled her glass.

“It’s kind of a touchy subject,” she said through clenched teeth. Hawke chewed on the inside of her cheek and watched with mild concern as her cousin down half the glass in one sip. Eda smacked her lips. “Remember the apostate woman I told you about? Flemeth’s daughter?”

Hawke nodded, wondering again why that name sounded so familiar to her.

“Morgana, right?”

“Morrigan,” Eda corrected.

“Right.”

“She and Alistair _despised_ each other. Couldn’t last ten minutes without jumping at each other’s throats She never liked me much either, but we were civil. Or, I thought we were.” Eda ran her finger around the rim of the glass, evoking its plaintive crystalline song. Hawke frowned and adjusted on the sofa.

“You thought…?”

“She had a plan all along. Perhaps from the moment her mother brought us to her hut, she had a plan.”

“What kind of plan?” Hawke asked with growing interest. She could tell that the story brought Eda a great deal of pain, but her curiosity was overwhelming. She had to know.

“A ritual. On the eve of the final battle, after we had learned that one of us would have to die to stop the Blight, she told me there was another way,” Eda began unsteadily. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and gathering her nerves. “She told me if she could conceive a baby with a Grey Warden, the child would inherit the taint and the Archdemon’s essence would seek it out instead of the Warden that slew it.”

Hawke said nothing, deciding to let Eda continue at her own pace. The mage was furtively rubbing at her eyes and taking measured breaths.

“And she told me,” Eda continued after the pause. “That it had to be with Alistair.”

“Oh,” said Hawke meekly. “So she…so they…?”

“I had to let her. Otherwise, one of us would have died that night. And we had just begun, Freddie, I couldn’t let it end like that…” Eda whispered, pressing one hand over her mouth.

“I know, Eda,” Hawke comforted, wrapping her arms around Eda. “I would have done the same. And it worked, obviously. The Archdemon is dead and neither of you had to die.” Hawke thought for a moment.

“Which could mean that it’s not hopeless for you. Having children, I mean. If Alistair was able to conceive once, who’s to say he can’t do it again with you?”

Hawke brushed away a tear from Eda’s cheek with her thumb and gave her a bracing smile. Eda returned it half-heartedly.

“I have thought about it before. But the more I consider it, the more I wonder what kind of magic was at play that night.” Eda looked down at her lap. “And then I wonder if _I’m_ the problem.”

Hawke lifted Eda’s chin to look her in the eye.

“Listen to me, cousin: You are not the problem. The odds are equally stacked against you both in this. Just because it hasn’t worked out yet doesn’t mean it never will. How long did you say you’d been trying?”

“Six years,” sniffed Eda.

“Only six?” Hawke asked. “Eda, love, it takes some normal couples longer than that. You can’t give up hope just yet. The Maker will bless you and Alistair with an armful of beautiful, sarcastic babies one day, I just know it.” Hawke pressed a kiss onto Eda’s forehead, but her speech did not soothe her cousin as she had hoped. Quite the opposite, actually; Eda struggled with something unsaid, something that was eating away at her heart. Hawke recognized the look from the years she had spent deciphering Anders’s moods and mind games.

“But that’s not everything, is it?” Hawke asked slowly. Eda shook her head, tears welling up in her amber eyes again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The mage battled with herself for another moment. Hawke could almost hear what she was thinking: Whatever it was, saying it out loud would make it real.

“A few months ago…we were so hopeful…we thought…” Eda stumbled over the sobs that were creeping into her voice. “Oh, Freddie, we had just had the basinet commissioned…” At this, she finally broke, collapsing into Hawke’s shoulder as she wept. It took a moment for the cold realization to finally creep over Hawke.

“Shit,” she breathed. “Eda, I can’t imagine…”

“I had never felt so _empty,_ Freddie,” Eda whispered. “It felt like my own body was poison.”

At this, Eda plunged a hand into her pocket and dug out a worn bit of folded parchment, thrusting it into Hawke’s hands. Hawke, her heart sinking, opened it, careful not to rip the creases where it had been folded and unfolded it thousands of times. It was a letter. And it was addressed to her.

_Dearest Freddie,_

_You won’t believe the news! After six years, Alistair and I are finally pregnant. I wanted to tell you sooner, but we’ve only known for a month now. I thought it must be too good to be true. I had almost given up. But we are going to have a child! He’s so excited, having just run out to go find a carpenter to make a cradle. That man. I don’t think he ever gave up hope._

“Maker’s breath…” Hawke said.

She briefly skimmed the rest of the letter, filled with inquiries about Bethany and condolences for Leandra’s death. Hawke didn’t know what to say. She felt ill; she had spent almost the entirety of Eda’s visit complaining about motherhood to a woman who had lost her child without ever laying eyes on its face. But worse than her own social faux pas was small twinge of jealousy; Hawke had never wanted a child. Everything would have been so much easier if Ella had never been conceived. The child was nothing but a living reminder of the worst day of her life. How much easier would it be to forget Anders’s lopsided grin, the merry twinkle in his eye, if she didn’t have to look upon his features in miniature as she fed and dressed and cared for his baby? But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, guilt surged through her. Though she would never have chosen motherhood, she loved Ella from the moment she had opened her blue eyes. That love had sustained her throughout the past week of confusion, frustration, trial, and error. With an emphasis on the error. Despite all of that, though, Hawke was grateful for the healthy infant asleep down the hall. She wanted no part in the anguish that played across Eda’s pale face.

“Eda, I’m so sorry. I would never have asked you to come help with Ella if I’d known how painful this would be…”

“No,” Eda said determinedly, drying her face. “I’m glad I got to see her. It was like a reminder of what we’re hoping for. And I couldn’t pass the opportunity to see you…especially after your letter.”

Hawke was once again at a loss for words, and so settled for pulling her cousin back into a hug. They sat, holding each other and sharing their pain for a long time. Eda was the one to break the embrace this time, turning away to blow her nose into a handkerchief.

“About your letter,” Eda said after collecting herself. “You said Ella’s father had passed away?”

“Passed away is putting it a bit lightly,” Hawke said, guarding the pain of recollection. She put on the steely mask that she had grown so accustomed to wearing since the day at the Gallows. “I killed him.”

Eda spat her wine back into her glass. “You…what?” she asked, evidently uncertain she’d heard right. She had.

“I killed him. I looked this man in the eye, a man I had sworn to love and protect, and I cut him down.” She hadn’t expected the relief that saying it out loud brought her; it felt good. Eda tried to cover her horror. After a moment’s consideration, she simply asked:

“ _Why?”_

Hawke put a hand instinctively on the portrait of Anders that Varric had kept safe until the day Ella was born; Hawke had been carrying it with her for the last six days. It was a strange, hollow comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless.

“I suppose you saw the reconstruction taking place on the Chantry,” she said softly, pulling the plate from her pocket but leaving it wrapped in the protective strip of wool.

“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“He did that,” Hawke interrupted. “And he lied to me about it. He was always going on and on about mage rights, pulling one harebrained scheme after another to win their freedom from the templars.”

“He blew up a Chantry?” Eda whispered in horror. Hawke nodded.

“I thought he was just planning another one of his pranks on the knight-commander. I can’t say they were ever really harmless, but I was always happy to help when it meant freeing mages from oppression,” Hawke continued. “But he took it too far. He asked me to help him sneak into the cellar of the Chantry…I assumed he was trying to nab some artifact…”

Hawke took a steadying breath, suddenly light-headed. Eda put a steadying hand on her arm and gave her a supportive smile. Hawke grimaced and continued.

“…But he was planting explosives. When I found out, I was furious. I had never known anger like that before. But it was even worse than I thought. The knight-commander saw what happened and assumed it was a full-blown mage rebellion; she invoked the Rite of Annulment.”

Eda pressed her hand back over her mouth. As a mage growing up in the Circle, the Rite would have haunted her nightmares since the moment she set foot in the tower. Hawke knew this as well as she knew how the next part of her story would paint her in the eyes of her cousin.

“I was so hurt, so confused…up until then, I had been fighting for mages whenever and wherever I could, but this…There was a riot in the streets. People were clamoring for the mages to be put down, threatening to storm the Gallows and do the job themselves if I didn’t allow the templars the Rite.” The mechanical edge to her voice drained away suddenly. “So…I let them proceed. Maker, Eda, I _helped_ them! I thought it would be better to give them a quick death than to let the mob torture them until they turned into abominations…” She choked back a sob.

“When he learned about my decision, he tried to stop me. He said that he had loved me once, and then…then he tried to kill me.” She could no longer stifle the tears, the anguish. “I should have let him.”

Eda stared, wide-eyed at her cousin. She knew Eda thought she was a monster, and she couldn’t agree more with her. There was so much blood on her hands…Anders, the Circle mages…even the victims of the Chantry explosion were her fault. If she had used her head for two seconds and looked a little closer into Anders’s requests, she would have realized what was happening and stopped the tragedy before it happened.

“I know what you must think of me, Eda…” Hawke said, her breath hitching in her chest. “And I understand if you want to leave. Varric can get you a room at the Hanged Man until I find a ship to take you back to Ferelden; he owns the place. I’ll have Selwyn wake Alistair—”

Hawke was cut short by the embrace she suddenly found herself wrapped up in.

“I don’t understand,” she said, surprised.

“We aren’t going anywhere, Freddie,” said Eda firmly. “You did what you had to do that day. It was a difficult choice, but it was _your_ choice, and you saved lives by making it. But there’s nothing you could have done that day that would make me leave when you still need me.” She pulled away slightly and took Hawke’s face in her hands. “You’re my family, Freddie.” She pulled Hawke’s face back to her shoulder and held her tight. “And I love you.”

Hawke went rigid. “I don’t deserve that,” she whispered.

Eda smacked her on the back of the head.

“Stop it. You’re not a monster and you’re not beyond help. That’s why I’m here, you dolt. You said ‘help’ and I came running.”

Hawke could resist the comfort Eda was offering no longer. The tension drained from her upper body, and she buried her face into Eda’s shoulder, throwing her arms around her cousin. Eda comforted Hawke as she had been comforted moments before. Hawke allowed herself to weep.

Eventually, Hawke pulled slowly away from the warmth and tenderness of the embrace and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her dress. As she did, Eda glanced down and bent to retrieve something that had fallen on the floor.

“What’s this?” Eda asked, studying the wool-wrapped plate.

“Oh, it must have slipped off the sofa,” Hawke said, undoing the leather cord that held her hair in place. “It’s a portrait of…him. I don’t know why I carry it around, I know it’s stupid. I guess it’s a way to keep him here, so Ella will have something to know her father by.”

“It’s the same reason I keep the letter, Freddie.” She covered Hawke’s hand with her own and added, “It’s not stupid.”

Hawke smiled at her and put her other hand on top of Eda’s. Then, she reached up to undo the tie that held her unwashed hair in place and gave her head a shake, delighting in the tingling sensation of release on her scalp. She was replacing the cork in the bottle of wine when she heard a tiny gasp from Eda. Hawke turned.

“This is…Is this Anders?” she whispered, staring at the now-unwrapped portrait. Hawke felt a familiar pang as she saw the handsome face, the intense amber eyes.

“Yes,” she sighed, tracing his nose with her thumb. “She got his nose. And his chin.”

Eda did not reply immediately, merely looking at the portrait with an unreadable expression.

Hawke frowned. “Wait…how did you know his name?” she asked, suddenly wary.

Eda shook her head, opening and closing her mouth like a fish for a moment.

“I don’t believe it,’ Eda finally said. “Not from what you’ve told me…then again, there was always something under the surface with him…”

“Eda, what are you saying?” Hawke demanded.

“Freddie, I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but I knew Anders.”

“ _What?”_

“Knew him well, too, or I thought I did. I’m the one who recruited him into the Wardens,” Eda explained, focusing on the portrait. “I _knew_ Ella looked familiar, but I assumed I was just seeing Aunt Leandra. I never would have guessed…” Eda pinched the bridge of her nose and slumped against the back of the couch. “How the hell did he end up in Kirkwall? How did he leave the Wardens? And _why?_ There wasn’t even a Blight when he was recruited.”

“He never really liked to talk about why he was in Kirkwall,” Hawke said hesitantly. “But he always said he left the Wardens because they wouldn’t let him keep his cat.”

“ _Ser Pounce-a-Lot?”_ Eda hissed.

Hawke nodded, incredulous.

“That’s bullshit; I _gave_ him that bloody cat!”

“I’m not exactly surprised. He fed me enough lies while we were together for me to question everything I know about him,” said Hawke bitterly.

“But it doesn’t make _sense!”_ Eda protested. “He was a good man when I knew him. A little on the chaotic side, perhaps, but not the sort of man to slaughter innocents for symbolic revenge against the templars…”

“I never said he wasn’t a good man,” Hawke said softly, taking the plate from Eda and running a hand over the crimped edges. “He was standing up for what he thought was right. I have to believe that.”

“Shit,” Eda breathed.

“Just like I have to believe that it wasn’t him in the end. That Justice finally took over and shoved Anders into the back of his own consciousness where he couldn’t see what I did to him.”

Looking at the portrait hurt too much, so Hawke picked up the strip of wool, wrapped it around the plate, and tucked the plate safely back into her pocket. She turned away from Eda and poked absentmindedly at the dying fire in the grate.

“…Did you say Justice? Like the spirit?” Eda asked quietly, after a long silence. Hawke nodded without moving from the fireplace. “Was Anders…was he bonded with Justice?”

Hawke nodded again, aware of the exhaustion pressing against the back of her eyes.

“Don’t ask me how though. All I know is that Vengeance offered to help him free the mages if Anders would be a physical host for him.” Hawke surprised herself with a laugh. “Which is really almost funny if you think about it, considering all the shit he gave Merrill for making deals with spirits.”

“Maker’s breath,” sighed Eda, shaking her head. “What wild night.”

“No shit,” laughed Hawke. “But…um…thank you. For listening, I mean. And for…not hating me. You have no idea how good it feels to talk to someone about all this. Aveline and Merrill and Varric have been great and all, but they were all there that day. They have their own interpretation of what happened, I know.”

Eda smiled warmly.

“I know exactly what you mean. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone but Alistair since this all started. It feels like this giant, black cloud has finally passed and I can see the sun again.”

The cousins shared another embrace. Varric, having slept through all of this, let out a mighty snore that startled the women into laughter. Hawke had forgotten he was there.

“He has the right idea,” Eda said. “I can barely hold my eyes open.”

“It’s the wine. You’re in for a real treat tomorrow morning,” Hawke teased.

Eda groaned. “Great, what a fantastic way to begin my stay in Kirkwall.”

Hawke snickered, but sobered when Eda gave her a scolding look. She took Eda’s hands in hers.

“You’re always welcome in my home for as long as you can stand us,” she said. “And Alistair as well.” Eda smiled.

“We’re so happy to be here, Freddie, you have no idea. It’ll be like having a family again.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said, beaming. “A family.”

Hawke rearranged the pillows under Varric’s head and lead Eda out of the parlor to the guest rooms where Alistair was no doubt fast asleep.

“Night, Freddie,” Eda yawned, already tugging her hair out of its plait. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Eda,” Hawke said with a smile.

Eda kissed her on the cheek and disappeared into the darkness of the guest room. Hawke turned as the door clicked behind Eda and strolled along the corridor to her own quarters. Unable to help herself, she cracked the door to the nursery and peeked inside to check on her daughter. Ella was still fast asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily beneath the blanket. Hawke felt a surge of love in her chest for the sleeping infant that surprised her. She had never wanted this life, but now that Ella was here…Hawke believed she might learn how to be happy again.

By the time Hawke collapsed into her bed, her shoes still on, she was already drifting into a deep sleep. For the first time since the birth, Hawke and Ella both slept through the night.


	4. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost six years since Eda and Alistair's first visit to the Hawke estate, and it's clear that things are heating up again in the world. Mage-templar fighting is worse than ever, and, to make matters worse, Varric warns of a new threat on the horizon. He tells Hawke of his plans to go to Ferelden to help something called the Inquisition. Hawke is devastated, but a letter from her cousin might be just the thing to cheer her up.

“I don’t want to go, either, Hawke.”

“Then don’t.” 

“You know it’s not that simple,” Varric said, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his reading glasses had left two red dimples.

Hawke folded her arms and turned to the window, away from him. “I don’t see what’s so complicated.”

“I can’t sit by and let this one work itself out,” he said, reaching up to squeeze her shoulder.

Hawke scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“I just can’t,” he insisted.

“They kidnapped you. Interrogated you. Threatened to _torture_ you. After all that, I thought that Cassandra woman was the last person you’d be running to in a time like this.”

“For once, this isn’t a tawdry romance serial. Cassandra needs me. The Inquisition needs me. You’re lucky I was able to convince them that they don’t need you.” He sighed. “I told them you’d been through enough.”

“And you haven’t?” Hawke snapped. “You’ve been through everything I have _plus_ all the shit you’ve shielded me from.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I’m expendable. You have a city to run.” He peered out of the window with a chuckle. “And a warrior to train.”

Hawke followed his gaze of the window and gasped. Ella, who had tied two cookie sheets to her torso like armor, was wobbling around the courtyard, trying to heft Hawke’s massive great sword.

“We’re not done here,” Hawke hissed at Varric as she sprinted down the stairs. “YOUNG LADY, YOU PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!”

The maids flattened themselves against the walls as Hawke barreled through the foyer and into the courtyard.

“Viscount,” they nodded, unfazed. Hawke managed a small wave as she threw open the door.

“ELLA LEANDRA HAWKE!” she boomed, bursting at last into the courtyard. The five-year-old tried to hide the sword behind her back and smiled sweetly at Hawke.

“Hello, Mummy!” she simpered, shuffling her feet. “Did you call me?”

“Drop the sword,” Hawke demanded, hands on hips.

Ella’s eyes widened, as did her smile. “What sword?”

Hawke narrowed her eyes, a wicked grin splitting her face.

“I’ll show you which sword, you little fiend!” Faster than Ella could blink, Hawke swooped down and scooped the child up in her arms, kicking the sword away. “Or should I say, the tickle demon will show you!” Ella shrieked with laughter as Hawke tickled her.

“Nooo! Not the tickle demon!”

“That’ll teach little girls to play with Mummy’s sword without permission again!” Hawke growled in her best demon voice. She threw Ella into the air and caught her, digging her fingers into the child’s sides.

“Help me, Uncle Varric!” Ella screamed between giggles. Hawke looked up to see the dwarf leaning against a column of the courtyard, watching the two play with a smile.

“Sorry, Peanut,” Varric said, holding up his palms. “I’m no use against the tickle demon.”

“ _Pleeeeease!”_ she cried as Hawke lifted one of the cook pans to blow a raspberry onto Ella’s exposed stomach. Varric sighed.

“I could never resist a damsel in distress. Hold on, there, I’m coming!” he called, running out to meet them. Hawke cackled as she lifted Ella high above her head.

“You’ll never take her alive!” she taunted over Ella’s laughter.

“We’ll see about that!” Varric retorted as he shrugged Bianca off his shoulder.

“No!’ Hawke gasped. “Not the magic crossbow!”

“Get her, Banka!” Ella giggled.

“You’ve tickled this city for the last time, you foul beast!” he cried, pretending to load a bolt. “Now back to the Fade from whence you came!” He mimed the kickback of the crossbow and Hawke let out an unearthly wail.

“ _Nooooo!”_ she howled, wrapping Ella up in her arms and sinking to the ground. “Defeated by the dwarf!” She collapsed, pretending to die.

Ella clapped and ran to Varric, who dropped to his knees to fold her into a hug.

“Uncle Varric, you saved me!”

“Well, of course I did, Peanut,” Varric said with a smile. “What else are Uncle Varrics for?”

He glanced over at Hawke, who was sheathing the sword that lay forgotten on the cobblestones.

“But you probably shouldn’t take your mom’s sword out anymore,” he added carefully.

Ella’s face fell, and she avoided Hawke’s eyes as she knelt beside her daughter. Hawke lifted the little girl’s chin and looked sternly into her eyes.

“Your uncle’s right, darling. No more swords.”

“Yes, Mummy,” she said softly. A pause, and Hawke could hear birds chirping over the distant din of Hightown.

“Not until you’ve had some training, anyway,” Hawke finished, grinning as her daughter’s eyes lit up.

“ _Really?_ ” Ella gasped. “I can finally start practicing with the other guards?”

Hawke laughed and hoisted Ella onto her hip.

“Maybe not with them just yet. But you’re just about old enough to start with a private teacher, and Aveline has agreed to give you lessons.” She cut off the little girl’s squeals of joy just as they began. “ _But!_ Before you start, I want you to take these cookie sheets back to the kitchen and apologize to the cook by washing them. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mummy,” Ella said sheepishly.

“Good. Then off you go,” Hawke said, sliding her daughter off her hip and onto the ground. As soon as her bare feet hit the cobblestones, Ella took off running to the house, cookie sheets in hand. Hawke watched her go with a weary smile and Varric wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Five years and I’m still not used to it,” he said with a laugh. Hawke draped her arm over his shoulders.

“Not used to what?” she asked.

“To you being a mom. I never thought it would suit you.” He smiled up at his best friend. “But it does. Suit you, I mean.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and leaned in to his familiar warmth. "Flattery won’t get you out of our conversation, you know,” Hawke chided. “But thank you. I never thought I could love that little maniac as much as I do.”

“She’s your world. You would do anything for her,” he said.

“Yes, I would,” Hawke admitted, matter-of-fact.

“As would I.” Varric sighed and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. “That’s why I have to go to Haven. It’s the only way I can protect you two from the shit that’s about to drop.”

“And just how does this Seeker woman know that there will be shit to drop?” Hawke asked. She pulled away from the dwarf to fix him with a steely glare.

He shrugged. “If my time in her custody is any indication, Cassandra has a pretty good shit-sniffer. She thinks the big bad is coming to town and she wants to have a task force ready to meet it at the gates.”

“And what if the big bad _does_ come?” Hawke demanded. “What if the so-called ‘task force’ isn’t enough and you don’t come back from Haven?”

He sighed and showed her his palms, defeated. “I wish I could promise that that won’t happen. But it’s a possibility we just have to accept.”

“No, we _don’t!”_ Hawke argued, taking his hands in her own. Their calloused palms fit together like one of Ella’s block puzzles. “You could stay here and stay alive!”

“I can’t be that selfish anymore, Hawke, you know I can’t! Too much is at stake— _Thedas_ is at stake! I can’t stay here and play it safe just because you’re afraid of losing another friend!” he spat, jerking his hands away.

Hawke could tell he regretted his words as soon as they crossed him lips, but she did not. He spoke a truth she could not deny. Wordlessly, they pulled each other into a tight hug, his face pressed into her chest.

“You’re right,” Hawke said, chewing her lip. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Believe me, I know you do,” he chortled.

“I wish I could go with you, if you have to go. It would be like old times again. You, me, up against impossible odds…”

“Swooning damsels. Piles of treasure. I could write a new hit.”

The two friends share a reminiscent laugh and held each other tighter. Even though his ship didn’t leave for another three days, this felt terribly like a goodbye. Although Hawke’s eyes were dry, she still felt a pang in her chest as she pulled away to cup the dwarf’s stubbled face in her hands.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful. Ella would never forgive you if you died.” She pressed a kiss onto his forehead. “And neither would I.”

“I know. I have no idea what we’re up against here, but it couldn’t be half as terrifying as your wrath,” he agreed with a smile. “And as soon as I’ve done everything I can to stop…whatever it is, I’ll be on the first ship back to Kirkwall.”

“You had better be,” Hawke muttered. She looped her arm through his and meandered back into the main house. “This shithole won’t be the same without you.”

“You’ll have Merrill and Aveline,” Varric said in a paternal voice. Hawke nodded begrudgingly.

“Yeah, but have you ever heard Aveline try to crack a joke? It’s positively depressing.”

They drifted into her office. Her desk—a reinforced ironbark model similar to the one she had smashed almost six years ago—was covered in stacks of parchment and books that probably all required Hawke’s immediate attention. She really needed to hire a scribe. Someone to sift through the mountains of paperwork for her so she could hold court and attend council meetings and keep Ella out of trouble. Maker, was she…was she _delegating?_ Hawke did not approve of the responsible person she was becoming.

“Don’t worry, your Viscountness, I’ll be sure to send you lengthy letters detailing every witty one-liner you miss while I’m in Ferelden,” Varric promised. He helped himself to a glass of sherry.

“I’ll wait for them like they’re my husband come home from the war at last,” Hawke pined, only half-joking. She was going to miss the dwarf like she would miss her right hand or her eyes. The thought of being without him again, even if only for a few months, was utterly bleak.

Varric laughed as he drained his glass in one swig and smacked his lips.

“I would expect no less from The Champion of Kirkwall,” he said fondly. “But I see you have some city business to manage, and _I_ have to figure out what to pack for this damn trip.”

“How thrilling…” Hawke drawled, glancing with trepidation at the massive pile of parchment.

Varric chuckled and clasped her shoulder. “Have fun, Hawke. I’ll be back over for dinner tomorrow night, before I leave.”

They hugged again.

“Take care,” Hawke said.

He saluted her with a smile and left her in the office alone.

She turned slowly to the mountain of paperwork, a sense of alarm building inside of her.

“I definitely need a scribe.”

Anticipating the headache she would likely develop as soon as she opened the first leaflet, Hawke followed Varric’s example and downed a glass of sherry before dropping into her chair. The stack looked a great deal larger from this angle than it had before. She gulped.

As she began sorting the pile into neater stacks (invitations, complaints, diplomatic requests, et cetera) a thick, creamy envelope slid off the mound and into Hawke’s lap. Seeing the drip of blue wax sealed with a roaring griffon, Hawke didn’t even need to read the neat, looping handwriting on the back of the envelope to recognize a letter from Eda. Letting out a small squeal, Hawke swept two of the newly-made stacks onto the floor to snatch her letter-opener and tear into the envelope. It had been almost three weeks since the last letter from her cousin, and more than a year and a half since her last visit to Kirkwall. Hawke hoped that the letter held some indication of when she could see Eda again.

_Dearest Freddie,_

_It finally happened!! I held off writing you for as long as I could because I wanted to make sure it was real this time, but Alistair and I are finally having a baby! After all these years, the Maker finally answered our prayers. From my count, I’m about six months along, and she’s doing just fine. She’s even kicking! Alistair gets annoyed when I say ‘she’ because he thinks it’ll be a boy, but I know better. I can tell it’ll be a little girl. But anyway, I say all this because I want you to be there when the baby comes. As excited as Alistair is to finally be a father, he has no idea what he’s doing. We could use some help. But more than that, I want to see you! It’s been far too long, big cousin. Send a reply as soon as you read this. I’m so happy, Freddie, I can’t stop smiling!_

_All of my love,_

_Eda_

Hawke read through the letter several times to make sure she hadn’t missed any details. Eda with a baby at last! She had all but given up on the idea of her cousin ever conceiving a child, and yet here she was, against all the odds. Hawke grinned, tracing over the hastily scrawled exclamation marks. It was wonderful that Eda would finally experience the joy of a new baby. She hoped that her cousin had a better time of it in the beginning than Hawke had, though. But Eda had a loving and supportive husband, not to mention the fact that they had been trying to conceive for years. Surely Eda’s experience would not mirror the misery of those first few weeks. And, of course, she would have Hawke’s help. Hawke wasn’t a particularly skilled mother by any stretch of the imagination, but she did have experience, and that counted for something. Hawke pulled out her quill and a blank sheet of parchment and scratched out a reply.

_Cousin Eda,_

_Maker’s balls, that’s wonderful news! I’m thrilled for you both. Of course I’ll come lend a hand, and I’ll bring Ella as well so she can meet her baby cousin. She’ll be so thrilled to hear about another little girl that she can play with! I swear, that child has more energy than she knows what to do with. I caught her today trying to swing my great sword around the courtyard while wearing the good cookie sheets for armor. Ridiculous. But we’ll both be there to welcome the little one. I’ll book our ship for two months from now, just in case she decides to come early like Ella. I’m so excited to see you again!_

_With love,_

_Freddie_

Hawke sealed the letter with the Kirkwall crest and flew out of the office, calling for her butler.

“Selwyn! Selwyn, I need you to take this letter to the rookery! It’s for Eda!”

“Settle down, Serrah, I’m on my way!” she heard him fuss from the kitchen. His footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floor as he bustled into the corridor to meet her.

She glanced back into the office at the papers that were now strewn on the floor as well as the desk.

“And hire a scribe for this damn paperwork while you’re out, please!” she added.


	5. To Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Ella arrive in Denerim just in time to help Eda deliver her baby. The morning after the baby's arrival, Hawke makes some startling discoveries about her own daughter and meets a fascinating stranger in the marketplace.

“You were right, Eda, it’s a girl,” Hawke beamed, wrapping the still-wet newborn in a soft towel and placing her into her cousin’s arms.

Eda’s skin was slick with sweat, her hair plastered to her drained face, but she wore a smile so radiant that anyone watching would have thought her the most beautiful woman in Thedas. And the man perched on the edge of the bed with his arm around the new mother certainly thought so. He alternated his gaze between his wife’s face and the tiny bundle now suckling at her breast with awe and love like Hawke had never seen, tears in his eyes.

“Maker’s breath…I didn’t know a person could be so small…” he whispered, gently brushing his thumb over the baby’s dimpled hand. At his touch, the hand clumsily unfurled and then wrapped around his thumb. He beamed at his wife.

“Eda, look! She’s so strong!” he laughed. Eda leaned against his chest and stared in wonder at the babe in her arms, hypnotized.

“Well of course she is, Alistair, she’s your daughter.”

“I know, but…wow, you _made_ that!” cried Alistair in disbelief. Hawke and Eda laughed at his exclamation. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful baby? I always thought babies looked rather like raisins at first, but she…” he sniffed, unable to elaborate his joy and wonder.

Hawke smiled as she plopped the soiled towels into the bucket she had prepared as soon as Eda’s water broke. She had thought Alistair’s paternal pride would stir the painful memories that had been slowly settling over the years, but she felt only delight and love for the family here with her, now larger by one member. There had been a small twinge of jealousy near the beginning of labor, when Alistair had fetched water and held Eda’s hand and encouraged her, but it had passed as soon as the child let out its first wail of life. She was grateful that this little girl would grow up with a father who loved her so much.

“She’s stunning,” murmured Eda, still entranced. Hawke studied the family fondly as she cleaned up from the delivery.

“Have you thought of a name for her?” Hawke asked, surprising the couple out of their reverie. Eda looked up at her husband and smiled.

“Well, we’ve talked about—”

“—I was thinking Wynne,” he interrupted, pressing a kiss onto Eda’s forehead. She sighed.

“I told you, dear, that would just get too chaotic. Wynne practically lives with us in the summers!”

“And we should honor her friendship and love!” Alistair insisted.

Eda shook her head and laughed, looking at Hawke in exasperation. “We talked about Joanna, Aveline, or Mira,” she said to Hawke, ignoring Alistair’s harrumph. Hawke smiled at them, the quintessential happy family. They looked like a classical painting in a Chantry, with the early light of dawn outlining the three of them in soft golden halos.

“Those are all lovely names,” she told them with a smile. “Do any of them fit her?”

“Perhaps,” Eda mused, tracing the curve of the baby’s round face. “I’d like to wait for Christening Day to decide though. You know it’s bad luck otherwise.” Alistair scoffed.

“That’s just superstition, darling. Three days is such a long time to live without a name! What are we supposed to call her until then? ‘You there?’ ‘Baldie?’”

Eda chuckled and swatted wearily at her husband.

“I somehow doubt she’ll begrudge us three days without a name. And besides, do you really want to tempt fate? After everything we went through to bring her here today?” She threw a sarcastic face at her husband, who sucked on his lower lip in defeat.

“All right, fine. You win again. We can just call her ‘Baby Amell’ until Christening.” He tapped the upturned nose of his newborn daughter. “Does that sound good for now, Baby Amell?”

The baby, in response, scrunched up her face in a yawn and fell asleep. Alistair watched in wonder.

“Wow,” he whispered in awe. “Can I hold her?” Eda smiled and kissed her husband on the cheek.

“Certainly. Alistair, meet your daughter,” she cooed as she gently lay the baby into his outstretched arms. “Mind her head,” she added, though she needn’t have bothered. Alistair cradled his child with the utmost care and love.

“Hello, there,” he murmured to the sleeping babe. “Aren’t you just the most beautiful thing in the world? Well, besides your mum, of course. That’s her on the bed, there, see? I have the pleasure of being your da.” He pressed a kiss to her tiny forehead and held her close to his chest. “And I’m here to love you and protect you for as long as I live. That’s a promise, Baby Amell.”

Hawke saw tears glistening in the eyes of the warrior as he spoke this vow and was certain that he would honor it. What a lucky baby slept in his arms: born to a wholesome couple who wanted her more than anything in the world. Although Hawke doubted in his existence, she said a quick prayer to the Maker for this baby to escape the curse that seemed to follow the women of her family. By the time she looked up, both mother and father had drifted off to sleep, tucked together around the new baby. Hawke was hardly surprised, considering the eighteen hours Eda had spent in labor. It had been a difficult birth, even compared to her own experience and the stories Anders had told her of his clinic. Hawke suspected it was the taint’s final attempt to prevent this birth. And it would have worked, if Eda hadn’t had her healing magic. The child had led with her feet rather than her head, and by the time Hawke had finally pulled the baby from the mother, she had realized with horror that the cord had wrapped around the child’s neck. Eda, having lost a dangerous amount of blood, had used her last moments of consciousness to shoot a narrow beam of green light from her fingertips at the half-strangled baby before collapsing back into her husband’s arms. Hawke, seeing her opportunity, slapped the infant and almost wept with relief when she heard a loud wail. 

Now, Hawke smiled at the family nestled together on the bed and quietly backed out of the chamber so as not to wake them. After achieving what had been impossible for eleven years, they deserved this rest. Hawke pressed the door back into the latch and walked to the back garden of the cottage, where the water pump stood. It had been years since Hawke’s hands had been covered in blood, and she did not relish the sensation now. She took hold of the handle and cranked it a few times to get the water flowing, then plunged her scarlet hands into the stream.

Between the icy water and the nip of autumn, her hands were numb almost instantly. She shivered as she rubbed her hands together, watching the crimson fade to a pale pink and splash into the grass below. She scrubbed up to her elbows and under her fingernails, trying hard to cleanse herself of Eda’s blood. There was no hope for her dress, she knew, but she endeavored to at least remove that which was now drying on her skin. So focused was Hawke on this task that she did not hear the cottage door swing open and closed behind her.

“Mummy?” called a small voice, startling Hawke.

“ _Maker’s tits,”_ she hissed to herself as she turned to her daughter, who clung to one of Eda’s pear trees in her little white nightdress. “I’m sorry, darling, Mummy didn’t see you there. What are you doing up so early?”

“Did someone die?” Ella asked, not moving from the safety of the tree. “Was it Aunty Eda?” Hawke glanced from her frightened daughter to her blood-splattered dress and back again. Realization dawned on her, cold as the water that still gurgled from the pump.

“Oh, no, Ella! Aunty Eda is just fine! She’s had her baby is all. There’s no need to be afraid.”

“Then why is there blood all over you?” demanded the little girl from the tree, her voice full of apprehension. It broke her heart to see her own daughter hiding from her in fear.

“I was helping your Aunty, and sometimes that just happens when you have a baby.” She gave Ella an encouraging smile. “It happened when I had you.”

This comforted Ella slightly, but she still did not approach her mother.

“Then…she’s all right?” she asked, letting go of the tree. Hawke nodded and dried her freezing arms on her dress.

“Yes, there’s nothing wrong with her. You can see her and her new baby when they wake up from their nap.”

Ella’s eyes lit up and she ran at last through the garden to her mother at last. She stopped short of throwing her arms around Hawke, however, reluctant to touch the bloody dress. Instead, she took hold of Hawke’s hand with both arms and pulled her back toward the cottage.

“Your hands are cold, Mummy,” Ella scolded, rubbing Hawke’s captured hand. “Let me warm ‘em up.”

Hawke’s smile faded as Ella brought the hand to her lips and exhaled a cloud of golden light onto her numb fingertips. The cloud settled over her skin like a ripple in a pond and Hawke’s hand glowed for a moment, heat spreading through her fingers. The sensation was irresistibly pleasant, like a warm bath or a merry campfire, but it filled Hawke with dread.

“Thank you, darling,” Hawke said with a tight smile, allowing Ella to tug her back into the cottage.

She told herself that this was only one sign that anything was wrong; it didn’t necessarily confirm her worst fears just yet. There was still a chance that she hadn’t inherited Anders’s gifts. Back in the house, Hawke sliced up an apple and poured a glass of milk for Ella’s breakfast and then retreated into the guest room as she ate. Hawke leaned against the door and took a deep breath. _This doesn’t mean anything. It’s all right. This doesn’t mean anything,_ she repeated to herself, like a Chant. It was the only thing she could allow herself to believe. The alternative was too frightening to consider: templars snatching her daughter, locking her up in a Circle where she would never see the sun again. Templars slaughtering her daughter in a field full of mages whose Circles had collapsed. Templars setting fire to the house after catching a whiff of rogue magic. Or else, living in fear of that alternative. Always on the run, always wary of every stranger who looked at Ella twice. With the Circles falling one by one and a war brewing between those newly freed and their ex-captors— _thanks again, Anders_ —there was no limit to the number of people who would kill them both on sight. No, Hawke had to believe that she had seen nothing but a flare of sunlight on her wet hands. She told this to herself out loud until she half-believed it. But that knot of apprehension in her stomach did not unwind.

Hawke sought to distract herself. She wrestled out of her ruined dress and stood in front of the wardrobe, shivering, as she selected another. She tugged on the folds of her favorite frock, a dark red one with gold stitching on the collar, but stopped short. She recalled the scarlet splattered up to her elbows and the horror on her daughter’s face as she hid behind the tree. Hawke tucked the dress back into the wardrobe and pulled out a blue one instead. Ella loved blue.

After dressing and coaxing her raven hair into a loose ponytail, Hawke returned to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Maker knew she needed the energy after playing midwife the night before. It was lucky Hawke had arrived in Ferelden when she had; the baby had come earlier than expected, and it seemed that every healer this side of the Waking Sea had been whisked off to Skyhold to work for the damn Inquisition. If their ship had hit a storm or if the wind hadn’t been as good as it had, Eda might have had to deliver the child alone with Alistair. Ella was the only passenger of the ship disappointed in the early arrival; she had had the time of her life running about the deck, looking at the ocean and befriending the gruff sailors in spite of themselves. It was a good thing Isabela hadn’t met her yet; Hawke was afraid she would whisk Ella off to sea on some wild, morally questionable adventure if she ever did.

The little girl now sat at the Amells’ simple dining table, kicking legs that did not yet reach the floor and poring over her primary book. She puzzled the words out loud to herself as she traced her finger over the inked symbols.

“The…puh…pig is in…the buh…bah…” Ella muttered haltingly, her face furrowed in concentration. Hawke peeked over her shoulder as she grabbed Ella’s empty glass and bowl.

“Barn,” she said with a smile, pointing to the troublesome word. Ella spared a glance up at her mother and returned intently to her study.

“Barn,” Ella repeated dutifully. “The pig is in the _barn_. He see—he _sees_ —the…cat…run. Running…”

Hawke lit a fire in the stove and filled the kettle at the pump while the flames grew, heating stove and kitchen alike. Then she put the kettle on, brushing away the thin sheen of sweat that had appeared on her forehead. It was nice to do some of her own housework again, even if this wasn’t her house. It was much simpler, more rewarding work than the bullshit she did in her office and her conference rooms. Working with her hands was much easier for her than working with her words.

She ate a slice of cold mutton from the larder and watched her daughter while the water heated. Ella read carefully at the table, unaware of the world outside of her primary book. It was one Varric had given to her for her birthday, after penning it himself and commissioning one of his resident illustrators for the pictures. He and Hawke had been teaching her to read ever since, and she was picking it up at an astonishing rate. Hawke thought her to be an extraordinarily gifted child, though she had not frame of reference. That would come in handy, if Hawke’s fears became manifest and Ella turned out to be a mage after all. From what Eda had told her, the majority of a mage’s life was spent in study. She hadn’t said how the rest was spent. Boredom, perhaps? Shagging in dark libraries, if Anders’s wild anecdotes were to be believed—though they usually weren’t. Regardless, it was difficult for Hawke to imagine the little girl before her sequestered in a stuffy tower. She felt certain that the Circle would drain away all the life and light from her daughter if they got their hands on her. And losing Ella would drain away what was left of Hawke.

The whistling kettle gave her a start. She gave a small yelp in spite of herself, almost dropping the pink teacup she clutched.

“Don’t be afraid, Mummy, it’s just the tea,” Ella comforted from the table, looking up from her book at the cry. Hawke let out a slow laugh at the almost-grown-up tone of her daughter’s voice.

“What would I do without you to protect me?” she chuckled, lifting the singing kettle with a thick woven cloth and pouring it over the shriveled black leaves sitting in the bottom of her cup. The sweet, heady aroma of jasmine wafted up from the steam. Ella shrugged as she turned the page.

“You’d be boned, I guess,” she said in her high, sweet voice. Hawke almost inhaled the sugar cube she was sucking on.

“ _Where_ did you hear that?” she gasped, coughing up coarse granules of sugar.

“You say it all the time, Mummy!” Ella chirped, turning to the next page of her book. Hawke blinked. _Well, fuck, she’s got me there._ She let a slow chuckle that turned into a hearty laugh.

“You’re so observant, sweetie,” she said at last, watching a new sugar cube melt into her tea. Ella frowned and turned toward her mother.

“What’s ‘azervent?’” she asked. Hawke smiled.

“ _Observant,_ ” Hawke corrected. “It’s like…you see a lot of details that other people don’t.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Ella said, her eyes growing wide with understanding. “Like how you can always tell if I’ve had a cookie after you say no?”

“Exactly like that,” Hawke said with a grin, taking a sip of her tea at last. Its warmth seeped into the pit of her stomach, banishing the chill that had settled there since washing her hands.

Tea in hand, Hawke left Ella in the kitchen once more to peek into the room Eda and Alistair had converted into a nursery. The rising beams of the morning were stretching slowly into the darkness within, silhouetting the handsome wooden cradle. It was adorned with carvings of griffons and draped in thick, warm furs waiting to tickle the soft pink skin of a newborn. Hawke thought it was the loveliest cradle she had ever seen. It was still missing one thing, though.

“Ella,” she called softly, wandering back into the kitchen. Ella pulled her finger out of her nose and looked up. “Do you want to come into town with me to pick up a present for your new baby cousin?”

“Yes!” she cried, slamming her book shut and sliding off the chair. She ran across the kitchen and jumped onto Hawke’s free arm, letting Hawke swing her off the ground for a moment. _Either she’s getting bigger or I’m getting weaker,_ Hawke mused to herself as she marveled at her exertions. To Ella, she said:

“Good lass! Let’s get you dressed and head out then, so we can be back before your Aunty wakes up.”

“OK!” Ella squeaked with a clumsy salute, running to the guest room she was sharing with Hawke. Hawke shook her head, amazed by the display of energy, and downed the rest of her tea in one gulp.

A little more than forty-five minutes later, Hawke had finally finished dressing Ella in a tunic (the same blue as Hawke’s dress, at Ella’s insistence) with trousers and pulled the thick blonde hair into something almost like two plaits. She was getting better at braiding, but Ella always made it quite a challenge by refusing to sit still for longer than thirty seconds at a time. She hadn’t had the patience this morning to make it more presentable. Hiding her sword beneath the folds of her bearskin cloak, Hawke took Ella in one hand and her shopping basket in the other and walked the front door of the cottage. By now, the sun had fully emerged from the horizon and glowed merrily in the sky, soaking up the dew that still twinkled in the grass. The clouds of the night before were dissipating in swirls of majestic pink and violet, and the bitter wind that had accosted Hawke at the pump had returned with a warm apology. It promised to be a beautiful day.

Ella skipped down the path ahead of Hawke, glancing back with an impish grin whenever she strayed a little too far. At Hawke’s demand, though, she would stop and dutifully wait for her mother to catch up before skipping off once more. After ten minutes, she already had grass stains on her trousers and mud on her boots.

“So much for looking presentable,” Hawke muttered to herself with a weary smile.

Although a few single riders or small carriages passed them by, the road into Denerim proper was mostly empty this early in the morning. The shops were probably just now throwing their doors open for business, people slowly trickling into the streets as they set about their work for the day. Hawke was excited to see Denerim again; she couldn’t have been much older than Ella the last time Mother and Father had brought her along. Bethany and Carver had still been in diapers. She wondered how the city she was about to see would compare with the distant memory of noise and commotion. Had the city changed since then, or was it the same hub of trade and commerce?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Before she knew it, trees and grass mingled with brick and stone, until she and Ella stood at the gates of the city. The castle appeared suddenly from behind the hill they had crested, its stately towers stretching firmly against the blue tent of the sky. The capitol of Ferelden, from this distance, looked like the shadow of a crouching giant. Inside, King Cailan—no, it was just Queen Anora, now—was probably already awake and tending to some national crisis or another. The sight of the castle evoked a surprising surge of nationalism for Hawke’s old home; having been away from Ferelden for so long, she had forgotten how much she had loved it.

“It’s even bigger than Kirkwall, Mummy!” Ella exclaimed, clutching Hawke’s hand and pointing at the city sprawled before them.

“Yes, it is,” Hawke said. She took a deep breath, relishing the familiar scent of mud and wet dog. _It hasn’t changed a bit,_ Hawke thought, a smile spreading across her face like jam.

“Can we go in now?” Ella begged, tugging on Hawke’s hand.

“Yes, but hold my hand while we’re in the city. I don’t want you getting lost,” she lectured. Ella groaned.

“Mummy, I’m _five,_ I’m not going to get lost!”

“I know, but _I_ might,” Hawke said. “I’m very scared of big cities. Will you hold my hand?”

Ella squinted at her mother but took her hand nonetheless. Led by her child’s insistent tugging, Hawke passed through the gates into the city. The guards gave them a curt nod, otherwise ignoring them. Aveline would have been furious if her own guards had been so lazy. She chuckled as she imagined the muscular redhead bellowing at a lineup of terrified men in the Denerim uniform. Aveline really had a way with men.

Just as she had suspected, the city was still shaking off sleep. Merchants were still setting up their stalls, laying out displays of goods and chatting with their neighbors. A few shopkeepers were sweeping dust out of their doors or throwing open their windows to air the shops. Enticing aromas were already wafting into the streets from bakeries and pubs. Hawke was surprised by the amount of noise that echoed around the cobblestones and the thatched roofs; hurried footsteps, the impatient whinnying of horses, the hearty boom of merchants’ announcing their wares.

“ _Dwarven crafts! Fine Dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar!”_ thundered one particularly virulent tradesman, a stocky dwarf, from his stall in the square. Each time his voice prevailed over the din of the city, Hawke thought she felt her hearing grow a bit fainter. The ruckus did not bother Ella in the slightest, however, presumably because she was used to running around Kirkwall semi-supervised at all hours of the day. At only five years old, she was already well-known around most parts of the city for roaming barefoot and talking to anyone who would listen, much to Hawke’s exasperation. Surprisingly, though, Ella’s shoes were still tightly laced and her hand firmly nestled in Hawke’s own. Though the atmosphere was familiar, the setting was still strange and new to the little girl.

“Do you know where we’re going, Mummy?” she asked, still drinking in the multitude of color and scent and sound.

“It’s a shop for metal smithing and wood working. Your new cousin’s birthday present is there, waiting for us to come pick it up,” Hawke explained, squinting at each shop sign they passed. What had Bethany called it? Maven’s Earthen Goods? She thought it was something like that, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the address on the letter order.

“ _Mummy!”_ cried Ella suddenly, jerking on Hawke’s hand. “ _Look!”_ Hawke stumbled forward and followed the insistent point of the child’s finger across the market square. A cluster of children was gathered about a single market stall, ogling at something that was on display there. Peering over the crowd of tussled pigtails, she saw what had caught Ella’s eye: a collection of polished wooden swords with rounded tips, perfectly sized for a child to wield.

“Can I have one, Mummy?” Ella practically drooled. She caught herself and looked back up at Hawke. “Please?” she added. Hawke couldn’t resist the hopeful gleam of her daughter’s eye.

“We can take a look and see what the man is asking for them,” Hawke said, adjusting the basket on her arm. Ella hugged her around the waist and took off ahead of her, shooting off to join the throng of children. Hawke laughed and ran after her.

Up close, Hawke saw that the children had made a ring of sorts around two young boys (no doubt hired by the merchant as advertisement) who were sparring with a pair of the wooden swords. They cheered as the two boys clumsily whacked and jabbed at each other, neither ever really gaining the advantage over the other. Ella almost blended in to the crowd, but for the bright hue of her dress that shone against the rough canvas and wool of the others. The merchant, dressed in a red silk tunic with embellished breeches, was standing on an apple crate, cheering along with the children and occasionally touting his wares over the din.

“Not a scratch after that blow! Just think: you could have something just as durable!”

“Fix your stance, you dolt, you look like a baby halla!” Hawke heard Ella screech at one of the boys. “And you! It’s a sword, not a dead fish! Grip it like a man!”

Hawke snickered at her daughter’s earnest cries; only two months of training and Aveline was already rubbing off on her. Hawke would have to write her when she got back to the cottage. She was sure that a good laugh would be a welcome relief from sitting in Hawke’s seat at court all day.

All at once, Hawke heard a triumphant cheer as the brawl drew to a close, the scrawnier of the two boys falling to his knees with the sword of the other thrust under his chin. A smattering of applause rippled through the children before the crowd dispersed in every direction. A few stragglers remained to ogle the swords, but it was clear that the majority of them had come strictly to watch the fight. Among the prevailing few was Ella, her eyes wide as discs as she looked at the displays. They were finely crafted, Hawke had to admit, looking almost as smooth as glass with the sun glinting off the polished blades. The merchant had hopped off of his apple cart to call after the scattering throng.

“Tell your parents! Oswin’s Toys and Fine Goods, I’ll be here until the harvest!” he boomed into his cupped hands. Hawke doubted how well his message had been received, but he seemed unphased, smiling as he dropped two silver coins each into the outstretched hands of the boys from the duel.

“Good work this morning, gentlemen. Go and fetch yourselves some breakfast.”

The boys slammed the swords onto the merchant’s table and took off running into the city with the money clutched in their fists. He watched them for a moment with hands on hips before he turned and saw Hawke at last.

“Ah, good morning, Serrah,” he said with a dazzling smile. “You look like a woman who knows what she wants. Does anything from my humble stall catch your fancy?”

“My daughter loves the swords, if you can’t tell,” she said, indicating Ella with a laugh. The child had picked up one of the toy weapons left behind by the boys and was carefully weighing it in her hand, giving it a few experimental swings.

“Ah, yes, the little cherub in blue!” he chortled, turning to the little girl. “You have quite the eye. But are you sure you wouldn’t be more interested in a doll or a flute?” He pulled a few of each off from his shelves and held them out for Ella to examine, but she crinkled her nose in disinterest as she clutched the sword in both hands.

“No, thank you,” Ella said in a small voice. “I like this.” Hawke was amazed at this sudden spurt of manners. The merchant frowned.

“Aren’t you a bit…delicate to be handling something like that?” he asked, putting down the doll and flute. “It is a _boy’s_ toy, after all.”

Hawke felt her blood run hot as Ella’s face fell. What right did this man have to treat a child like this?

“As a matter of fact, she’s been training in swordplay for two months now, under the finest swords _woman_ in Kirkwall. She’s no more _delicate_ than those two mongrels you hired, and easily ten times as skilled,” Hawke spat, putting a hand on Ella’s shoulder. The merchant scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know how things are in Kirkwall,” he drawled. “But we Fereldens don’t care to delude our women about what they can or cannot be.”

Hawke’s fist clenched and she felt the weight of her own sword pressing into her back, beckoning to her. It had been so long since she had gotten to teach some sniveling noble brat a lesson. How easy would it be to lop off that perfumed coif of his? Or to smash his stupid toy cart and have done with it? But just as her hands reached under her heavy cloak to wrap around the thick hilt of her great sword, Ella stepped forward and slammed the toy sword back onto the table.

“I don’t think I want this anymore,” she said in a voice like chilled steel. Ella gave him a hard look, capturing him in her gaze like a nug in torchlight, before turning on her heel and marching away. “Let’s go, Mummy,” she murmured to Hawke, grabbing a fistful of her skirt and tugging. Her wrath cooling slightly, Hawke released the hilt of her sword and allowed her daughter to steer her away from the stupefied merchant.

“Are you sure you don’t want the sword, darling?” Hawke asked once they were a safe distance away. Ella scowled and spared a glance over her shoulder.

“Yes. That man was mean. I didn’t want to give him any of our money,” she said darkly as she plowed through the masses, Hawke in tow. “And I don’t need a toy. I’ll be a real warrior with a real sword when I’m big.”

Hawke smiled tightly.

“That’s right, Ella,” she said. “And Aveline says you’ll be one of the finest in Kirkwall.”

Hawke worried at the scowl that remained on Ella’s face. She stopped short, pulling her daughter’s hand from her skirt and wrapping it in both of her own. Ella looked up at her from beneath her thick golden eyelashes. “Listen to me, darling: Don’t ever let a fool like that tell you that you’re too small or too weak or too _anything_ to do what you want to do. Do you hear me?”

Ella nodded silently.

“Good; then _heed_ me. He doesn’t know the first thing about you or the first thing about strength. And I don’t just mean knocking down your enemies with a weapon. What you did just then, walking away, took a different kind of strength, one that your mummy is still working on. So I’m proud of you for what you just did, you understand? You are stronger than most grown-ups I know; don’t you ever forget it.”

She took Ella’s face in her hands and swept aside her honey-colored bangs to press a kiss onto her forehead. Ella stared back without a word, but Hawke saw that the dark cloud had passed from her face at last. She knelt to hug her little girl, her greatest and most unexpected joy.

“Now, let’s get far away from that sorry asshole--,” Hawke started. _Shit._ “—don’t repeat that—and find this shop.”

Ella giggled at her mother’s profanity and dutifully took hold of Hawke’s hand, apparently back to her sunny self once more. It didn’t take long for them to find the shop; it stood about half a field length to the left of the toy merchant’s stall, under a large sign depicting an axe lying atop an anvil that read “Melbin’s Earthen Goods: Woodworking and Metal Smithy.” _Melbin, not Maven,_ Hawke noted to herself. She had been close, at least.

Hawke led Ella into the shop, which had not yet filled with shoppers for the day. Only a small handful of men and women, humans and elves alike, Hawke saw, perused the displayed armor and furniture. Despite the two open windows and the multitude of candles, the shop was still rather dimly lit, bathed in shadows and a thick layer of sawdust. Behind the counter, Hawke saw a cramped space that was divided roughly in half by a tall workbench. On the left, a wiry old man bent over a thick board with a hammer and a chisel, surrounded by discarded curls of pale wood and a mish-mash of tools. Despite the mess, it was clearly the neater of the two halves: on the right was an explosion of stock metal, shelves loaded to sagging with hammers and tongs, half-finished pieces of armor hanging from hooks on the walls. All of it gleamed in the light of a merry flame burning in the pit. Curiously, though, the fire was as unsupervised as the front counter.

Deciding to grant the store owner a bit of time to appear, Hawke floated around the store and glanced at some of the wares. Ella was content to watch the man in the back at his chisel, apparently uninterested in platemail and end tables. Hawke, however, was quite impressed by the quality of the armor on display. Each piece appeared smooth and supple, free of the small dents and chips that typically peppered any suit. She wondered if this smith were as skilled with weaponmaking, but she could not find any swords or axes on display. Odd.

Eventually, the door swung open, letting in a blast of cool air as well as a stocky man carrying a bundle of parcels. He rushed behind the counter, dropping a few of the boxes on his way, and dumped the rest on the floor near his forge. He grabbed a bellows from the floor near the parcels and pumped a blast of air onto the small flame, creating a shower of red sparks that cascaded out from the grate.

“Oi, do you want to catch the shop on fire?” snarled the woodcarver without sparing a glance from his chisel.

“Hush up, you old fart,” the new man—possibly the blacksmith?—retorted with a warm chortle. “You’re so engrossed in the damn oak that you missed this flock of customers.”

The woodcarver grunted in response, tapping away at his chisel.

“You tend to them,” he grunted. “I’ve got to finish this bear right now or it’ll never come.” The blacksmith let out a great bark of a laugh.

“There’s always a bear with you, isn’t there? Fine, I’ll see to the counter.” On his way out of the shop, he plopped an oblong parcel on the bench beside the woodcarver. “Breakfast. Giselle sends her love from the bakery,” he added genially.

As the blacksmith hurried to the counter, the woodcarver finally put down his chisel for a moment to snatch up the parcel and unwrap a beautifully baked bun. Even over the tang of metal and sawdust, Hawke could smell the honey and sugar permeate the shop and felt her stomach rumble. Breakfast suddenly felt like a distant memory.

The blacksmith finally reached the storefront, picking up the packages he had dropped and stowing them on a shelf behind the counter. He whistled something jaunty all the while. Hawke fell into the back of the queue that had formed during the artisans’ conversation and waited as people placed orders and purchased goods. All the while, the merry voice of the blacksmith boomed throughout the store. He was clearly quite popular among the denizens of the city; he knew most of them by name, inquiring about their children or their holidays to Antiva. By the time she finally reached the counter with Ella, she felt as if they were already on familiar terms.

“Now here’s a face I haven’t seen ‘round here before,” he said with a smile, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling. His teeth shone brilliantly white against the bushy black tangles of his beard. “I saw you and the little lady—hello, young miss!—while I was out and about and I thought you must be new to these parts, or else I’d know you by now. I never forget a face.”

He stuck a large, thickly calloused hand over the counter to Hawke.

“Name’s Burt and it’s a pleasure to meet you. Might there be a name I could put with this lovely face?”

Hawke smiled in spite of herself as she took his hand and shook it firmly.

“I’m Hawke. Well, Winifred— _Freddie—_ I mean…” She cleared her throat and tried to banish the tinge of red from her cheeks. “My name is Freddie. It’s nice to meet you.”

She realized she was still shaking his hand and recoiled as if burned. He quirked an eyebrow, apparently amused by her foolishness. What the _hell_ was her problem? Perhaps it was the sleepless night spent delivering Eda’s baby. Or perhaps it was this man’s throaty laugh, the powerful bulge of his forearms…?

“A strong name for a strong woman! And what do I have the pleasure of calling the young lady?” he asked, shifting his gaze to Ella, who clung shyly to Hawke’s skirt. Hawke blinked twice and gestured vaguely to the little girl.

“Um…” Hawke said. Burt’s beard twitched with silent laughter and Hawke felt heat rush to her face.

“Are you feeling sick, Mummy?” Ella asked, looking up at her mother with concern.

“Yes, I rather am, darling,” Hawke replied. To Burt, she managed: “This is Ella. My daughter. My daughter, Ella.”

Burt stepped out from behind the counter to press a kiss onto Ella’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you as well, Miss Ella!” he said grandly. The little girl laughed as she pulled away, rubbing her hand on her tunic. She did not retreat back to Hawke’s skirt.

“Your beard tickles!” Ella accused with a giggle.

“I know, it’s awful!” he agreed in earnest. “But where else can I keep my porridge for later?”

He winked at Ella, who laughed like an imp: the laugh Hawke always heard right before some mischief ensued. Hawke shook her head, unable to stop smiling. _Get a hold of yourself, woman,_ she thought to herself. _It hasn’t been_ that _long since you’ve spoken to an attractive man._

The man in question—Burt, she remembered—walked back behind the counter and leaned on it with one arm, brushing a few loose black curls out of his eyes with the other. 

“Now that we’re all on friendly terms, what can I do for you?” he asked brightly. Hawke swallowed hard, trying to remember what it was they had come for.

“We’re getting a present for my baby cousin,” Ella chirped. Hawke thought she had never been so grateful for the child as she was just then.

“ _Yes!_ A present!” Hawke said, a little louder than she had intended. Softly, she added: “I placed an order from Kirkwall about a month and half ago for a wooden mobile. My sister, Bethany, had one made here when Ella was born and recommended this place when I told her our cousin was having a baby.” She paused. “Not that you needed to know all of that, but there you have it.” Andraste’s _tits,_ she could never show her face in this shop again.

To her surprise, recognition dawned over his bearded face.

“Freddie Hawke from Kirkwall!” He mused, straightening to his full height almost two heads above Hawke. “I shoulda known I was addressing nobility! Old Melbin almost fainted when he saw that the Champion of Kirkwall was tossing business our way.” He grinned sheepishly and tugged at his beard. “I have to admit though, I thought Freddie was a gentleman’s name.”

Hawke waved her hand dismissively, slightly annoyed that her title had followed her all the way across the Waking Sea.

“A common error. You’d be amazed at the opportunities that open up when people think you’re a man,” she said, only half-joking.

She had gotten half her work as a mercenary because her employers had read her name on a roster and assumed she was male. The discomfort and humiliation they had suffered upon learning her sex was always something to look forward to in that first dark year in Kirkwall. Burt, however, was amused rather than horrified. He let out a mighty laugh, clutching his broad chest.

“Well, damn, I suppose you’re right!” he said. “But I’m sure people change their tune once they meet you. You seem like a woman who can take care of herself.”

She cocked her head, unsure how to respond. He saved her the effort, however.

“I mean no disrespect, but I am a smith, Viscount. I can spot a warrior a mile away. I knew you was a fighter even from across the marketplace, while you were arguing with that fool merchant, Oswin.” He leaned in closer to Hawke, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “And between you and me, your cloak isn’t doing much to hide that great sword.”

With less than a foot between them, Hawke noted that he smelled of sawdust and smoke: an unexpectedly pleasant combination that she found very…distracting.

“Ah,” she murmured, shifting the strap of her scabbard under her cloak. “I didn’t know I was so conspicuous.”

“Only to a trained eye, Viscount, don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody if you don’t want me to.”

“Oh, please don’t call me that. Call me Freddie if you’re going to call me anything,” she protested, waving her arms at him. He caught her wrist gently to keep her from knocking over a stand of displayed gauntlets by accident.

“Careful, Freddie,” he said with a smile, releasing her hands. They stood frozen for a moment, eyes locked, and Hawke could hear her own pulse rushing in her ear. After a moment, Ella broke the spell by tugging on Hawke’s skirt.

“Mummy? There’s a lady waiting in line,” she said. Hawke turned to find an older woman standing a few feet behind Ella, a slip of parchment clutched in her wizened fingers. She was pretending to examine a finely carved rocking chair displayed in the corner, a smile tugging at her lips. Again, Hawke felt heat blossom into her cheeks.

“I’ve taken up so much of your time,” Hawke apologized, pressing her hands to her face to cool them. “If I could just pay for the mobile, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Of course,” Burt said quickly, running off to the back of the shop. Hawke took a deep breath and held it as he left, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of her heart. _Maker’s breath, what a mess,_ she thought to herself. Behind her, the old woman was tittering quietly to herself. If only Hawke could turn into a dragon and take to the skies, like that Flemeth woman…

Burt returned shortly with a carefully wrapped package that he slid across the counter to her. He was whistling once more, but Hawke thought the tune was a bit faster than before.

“That’ll be thirty sovereigns, Serrah,” he said brightly, scratching numbers into a ledger book. Hawke stuffed a hand into her coin purse and fished out the money.

“Thank you! And what’s the address?”

Hawke paused in the middle of hooking the purse back to her belt.

“The address?” she asked, confused. His dark eyes were glowing like new coals.

“Er…yes! The address. So I can send a receipt,” he said in an odd tone. Hawke frowned until his wink triggered her understanding.

“Ah! Yes, the address!” she said, a tad too loud again. She grabbed the quill and ledger from him, tore out a blank page, and scribbled down Eda’s address before stiffly shaking his hand again.

“Thank you for the mobile; it was so nice meeting you,” she said in a rushed voice. She scooped up the package and pushed Ella toward the door.

“Is something _wrong?”_ Ella asked with suspicion, glancing back at Burt.

“No, not at all!” Hawke squeaked, waving at the blacksmith. He waved back with a smile as the old woman stepped up to the counter.

“Don’t stay away too long!” he called jovially. As Hawke pulled the door to a close, she heard the old woman’s voice.

“Will you be wanting _my_ address as well, young man?” she asked drily.

Hawke groaned and leaned against the door. Thank the _Maker_ she made it out of there alive. She couldn’t believe she had actually told him where she was staying. Was she insane? Who knew if this man was even to be trusted? What if he showed up and demanded more than she was willing to give? Or worse, what if he never showed up at all and left her to wonder what might have been for the rest of her life? _Or worse? Get your priorities in order, you fool,_ she admonished herself. But as rash as her decision had been, she couldn’t deny the sense of excitement bubbling inside of her. She hadn’t let herself see anyone since the Worst Day almost six years ago. Perhaps Anders’s grip on her was finally loosening, after all this time. The thought of freedom from him, from the guilt, was both thrilling and terrifying.

Ella was still looking at her like she had sprouted wings, but Hawke evaded her by stuffing the package into the shopping basket.

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” Ella demanded as they made their way once more into the marketplace. Hawke sighed.

“Yes, Ella, I’m sure. Your mum just has a difficult time…making new friends, is all,” she said carefully. Ella squinted up at her.

“Is that what just happened?” she asked doubtfully.

Hawke shot her a shrewd look. “I did say I had a difficult time.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Maker's Breath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258934) by [KatieBethBug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieBethBug/pseuds/KatieBethBug)




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